He Had Changed
by she whose words excel
Summary: He wants nothing more than to have control over her. She wants nothing more than to get away from him. How can you miss someone that's right there?
1. Peter

**A/N: Okay, so I understand that most of you probably hate me because I'm for some reason completely unable to keep up any of my stories. Yeah, I'm mad at myself too. But ideas don't just come to me when I need them to. I can't just sit down and write and have it be good and not stiff-sounding. This one proves that. This idea hit me like a train. Shit. **

**So I've noticed a recent trend on this archive, that being stories about Tris's experiences with her abusive boyfriend Peter and how she's saved by the mysterious Four, turning it into a proper love story. And while I understand that this type of fanfic can work if it's well written (see _Take Care_ by wrighterbynight), it's just not for me. I don't think Tris needs Four to save her or make a change in her life. She only needs herself. Women don't need men to get away from men. **

**Ergo, the plot of this story takes shape. Tris is angry and sad that her idea of a perfect relationship with Peter is falling apart. He's moody, angry, and their sex sucks. And he hits her. Yeah, major emotional and physical abuse CW for anyone who's sensitive to that sort of thing. But she takes matters into her own hands. She stands up to him without the help of any boy. The only men in this story central to the plot in any way are Peter (obviously) and maybe Caleb, if you squint. Also, gay Caleb is very important to me. If Caleb isn't in love with Peter, I didn't write it. **

**A lot of this story is also told in flashbacks, for expository purposes. None in this chapter, but in the next few there will be, and they'll be denoted as such (mainly through the use of tense). **

**So here it is. Bow down, bitches. _He Had Changed_. Yolo.**

**CONTENT WARNING: Physical abuse, emotional abuse, suicide mention**

* * *

><p>He had changed.<p>

When I first met him, he was just a sweet guy from my English class. The only time he ever spoke was to answer questions in class, and to read when the teacher asked for volunteers. He was always the first to raise his hand.

I really felt I knew him after our creative writing assignment, a poem about a teenage topic. A lot of kids chose things like sex or parties and made no effort to mask their subjects, but Peter's was different. His poem was about exactly what you'd expect the quiet guy with big eyes in the corner, wearing all black, to write about: suicide.

But I'm sure the teacher and I were the only people besides him who knew what it was about. The use of metaphor was so clever, the words so enticing in their order.

That's when I started talking to him.

He was so... soft. Introverted and introspective, the spirit of a poet shone through him like the sun. He was tall and lean and his hair smelled like strawberries, and his lips tasted like cotton candy. And it was love in its purest form. He didn't need to buy me things or send me sweet texts or even write me any of those beautiful poems. He expressed unconditional love for me by just existing. We didn't need to have sex, or even kiss, though we did. It was the kind of love that made you feel like you could do anything.

But now he's changed. Physically, to begin with. His auburn hair has grown and is permanently messy. He's traded contacts for glasses. Bags sit under his eyes due to a lack of sleep. He's put on a good ten pounds. And I'd probably find these things endearing or even attractive if they didn't remind me of the person he is now.

The nights spent dreaming of our perfect love have been replaced by sleepless nights spent sobbing because I feared he'd do something if I told anyone just what he said or threatened to do. Love poems replaced with angry texts. Cuddle sessions eliminated in favor of afternoons in the park that remind me of the money I've spent feeding his smoking habit.

I shouldn't be spending money on a boy who yells at me, who punishes me for arbitrary things, who hits me and fervently apologizes with no remorse in his big green eyes.

But I do. And I do a lot of other things for him that I shouldn't.

* * *

><p>My phone buzzes, interrupting my reverie. Lately I spend a lot of time thinking, usually about nothing in particular.<p>

The knot in my stomach - the one I had been trying so hard to ignore - loosens when I see the sender. It's not Peter. It's just Christina. My best friend since the third grade, and the only person I've ever divulged the details of my horrendous relationship to.

_What did you get for #45 on Yanceys hw_, the text reads.

Instead of telling her my straightforward answer, I explain to her how to balance a chemical equation. The answer is 6.

_Thanks_, she replies a few minutes later.

I check the time. It's 6:23. Peter will be here in seven minutes, if he kept his word.

_Don't text me for a few hours_, I send in reply. _I don't want our date to be interrupted :-)_

_Gotcha_.

I drop my phone into my black bag and tug on my boots. My parents aren't home, but my brother is. "Caleb!" I call up to his room from in front of the door. "I'm leaving!"

He yells a noise of affirmation. My heart pounds as I wait for the door to open.

It does. Peter's green eyes stare back at me, magnified in the glasses, and his chapped lips curl into a smile.

He pulls me in and starts kissing me forcefully. The urge to return it overcomes me. I remember when that urge was all I felt whenever he kissed me.

He pulls away a few seconds later, probably a bit too long for him to have realized I wasn't enjoying the kiss. "What's wrong?"

I gulp and shake my head. "Just tired."

Truthfully, I would have liked to have said hi or hugged him before he shoved his tongue down my throat, but boys want what they want. That's what Christina tells me, anyways.

"Why are you tired?"

He's wearing all black. Caleb was right. It's his color. It slims him down and creates contrast with his pale skin.

"I had a lot of homework. I mean, I did all of it. I just... I mean, it's kind of late, isn't it?"

He frowns, and that's when I realize he had been smiling.

"We can't just... hang out or something?"

I swallow and try to focus on something else. "I mean, I guess we can." I don't know why I said that.

His face lights up. He seems so childlike sometimes, so innocent. He takes my hand, and his is cold and sends chills through my body. He presses it to his cheek and smiles down at me. "We could go to the park," he suggests.

I'm about to tell him I don't want to leave my neighborhood when the door opens and my brother steps out into the night.

Caleb technically should be in the same grade as us, but he does so well on his exams that he's in the grade above me. And the college-application stress of senior year makes for a brother who rarely leaves his room on school nights.

Caleb's a supportive brother, but unlike with every other boy I've dated, there's no bug up his ass about Peter. He's been head over heels for my boyfriend since the day they met. Really. He's always asking me for his number, telling me he'll call him whenever we're done.

"Hey," Caleb says, a smile spreading across his face as he leans in the doorway.

It takes Peter a few seconds to look away from me and up to Caleb. "Hi," he says quickly before he turns back to me and starts pulling me to his car.

"Wait," I protest, pulling in the other direction. But Peter is stronger than I am.

He stomps his feet and lets go of me before he walks back to the car and slides in, turning the keys in the ignition.

I turn back to Caleb, who stares at me, confused. "Are you guys okay?"

"Yeah, we're fi-"

"And has he been gaining weight?"

I roll my eyes. "Good night, I'll be back later."

"Stay safe." His words bring a chill over me. I should heed them. But I don't know if I can.

* * *

><p>Peter takes a drag of his cigarette and blows out in front of him. I hold my breath. I hate smoking.<p>

"I'm tired," I tell him, grabbing his free hand.

He pulls away instinctively, but then eases his hand back into mine and rubs my palm with his thumb. He tosses the cigarette and crawls on top of me. He props himself up on his hands so as not to crush me. He leans down and starts to kiss me, and it's gross. Our lips press together and his tongue is sliding into my mouth when I hear a loud buzz.

I fumble around for my phone with my left hand, but when he realizes what I'm doing he stops me without breaking the kiss. He presses into me more forcefully and there's nothing I can do about it since he's crushing my hand. I try to make a noise of protest, but he only presses further.

But I still have my right hand. I fumble about on that side and he presses his other hand down on my upper arm. I move my left one up to distract him and move around, keeping my lips involved. My neck begins to ache.

My hand meets something papery and thin. Peter's discarded cigarette.

I grab it and press it into his forearm.

He howls and throws himself off of me, and I lurch up. I toss the cigarette as he rolls back. I see his glasses land on the floor through my peripheral vision as I grab my phone (still buzzing) and my bag. I begin to run blindly in the opposite direction, but wet grass against the soles of my shoes makes slipping easy, as do the arms of a large boy.

He trips me and drags me back a few feet and my head slides against the grass.

"What," he begins, cradling his burnt arm, tears coming out of his eyes, "the hell was that?"

I listen to the sound of his heavy breaths and match it to my panting. I scoot forward and close my legs.

Tears swim in his eyes. He grabs his glasses and shoves them onto his face. He opens his mouth to say something, but instead of words, only coughs come out. He wipes his mouth with his unscathed arm.

"I'm sorry," I say quietly. "I just didn't feel like kissing."

He opens his mouth again, but promptly closes it. My stomach drops. I wish he would hit me.

Like he read my mind, he leans forward and grabs my arm, spins me around and covers my mouth with his free hand. I can see the burn mark there on his forearm, brown and fresh and gross.

I try to protest, but his grip is too strong and my fear too large. He spins me again, the opposite way as before, and sends a huge slap across my face.

I'm sent backwards and I land on the ground, hitting my head on the grass that's not as soft as I assumed it was.

He lands on top of me again and leans in close to scream at me. I can barely make it out. All I register is the angry tone of voice in which he shouts at me and the thumping of my heart and the burning desire for the past, for the old Peter, to be held in the arms of a boy who doesn't hit me and who means it when he says he loves me. That's all I want. That's all I can want.


	2. Sylvia and Ted

**A/N: Not miss me actually updating this... a day later! I need to make sure that I pace my work and space it out so this story doesn't fall victim to the neglect that my other stories have. :-/**

**Anyways, thank you to both of my amazing reviewers. To the Guest: I'm glad you like it! But honestly, I don't really know if I can make it Fourtris. I just don't really care for Four? Like as a character he's never interested me as much as the other has. To hawkkitty44: Thank you for your review. You guys are both great. **

* * *

><p>I still feel that slap, sixteen hours later.<p>

I feel it in Peter's eyes when they stare me down in third-period English class. He's sitting in the seat he sat in the first time I ever met him, gazing at me, those big green eyes boring into me with anger and sadness and God knows what.

I can't ignore him. So I stare meekly up in his general direction.

My phone lights up, silenced during class hours. It's from Peter. Meet me after class.

Another one comes seconds later. By your locker.

I gulp and press my hand to my injured cheek. It aches, but it serves a purpose to me: a reminder.

* * *

><p>Peter collides with the locker next to me the second I close mine. His mouth curls into a smile and he takes my face in his hand, the way he used to.<p>

I pull away before our lips can touch. "Stop, please, I don't feel like it."

He pulls away and slams a fist on the locker. Some people stare, but I don't care. "Why don't you ever want to kiss me anymore?"

How do I explain to him that the last thing I want to do is kiss the boy who hit me for not wanting to kiss him in the first place?

I don't say anything. I just stare past him down the hall and ignore the sigh he lets out. "You've changed."

I look back to him. I've changed? Has he looked in the mirror?

* * *

><p>He was such a good lover. Never too forceful, never too gentle. He swept me in his arms and took me to bed and made me feel like we were the only two people left in this world.<p>

"I love you," he said nonchalantly, sitting next to me on the bed and stroking my hand. He was rolled up in my sheets and covers, shirtless in just his underwear. His hair stuck to his forehead; he was still a bit sweaty from the sex.

It was the first time we ever did it.

"I love you too," I told him, taking his hand and kissing it.

"Get back here," he said, motioning to the area right next to him. I crawled back down and let him drape his arms around me. He began to plant soft kisses all over me - my hair, my neck. I crawled on top of him and started playing with his hair as he moved to my lips. "I love you," he whispered each time I lifted my head to breathe.

* * *

><p>"I've missed you," he said quietly as he sat on the bed, the same one where we boned for the first time. This was three weeks ago, five weeks after our first.<p>

"I've missed you, too," I said in reply, taking his hand and rubbing it between mine.

He smiled a little. It reminded me of our first time, but the differences were noticeable. His eyes swam around me with confusion, vision impaired from his lack of glasses. His weight gain was more evident when he was shirtless. The dark circles betrayed his fatigue. He looked like he wanted to go to sleep, not have sex.

He was sweaty this time too, but it was a cold sweat, one of anxiety. He was nervous, even though we had done this several times. He was nervous all the time, still is.

Intimacy was never a fear of Peter's as it was of mine. The first time dissipated all of that anxiety. But he had never had it. So it just built up over time, the way fear does, at least for him. He's terrified of failure, as I found out over the course of the countless nights I listened to him cry. He's scared that he'll go out and perform and be hated and mocked and humiliated, but that never struck me as scary. Christina thinks that's why he's so attached to me. He needs my fearlessness. He needs what he lacks.

He crawled up and started kissing me like he used to. But something was missing. It was less passionate, less caring, less animated, definitely, but something else was lacking there too. There was love, but no spark.

He was between my legs now, stretching his arm up to the top of me. His head was in my middle. He worked his hand from my collar bone to the middle of my stomach. He spread it out on its palm and leaned forward, bringing his rough lips to my soft ones. His other hand ran through my hair. And I responded, jerking my body forward. He smiled and whispered "I love you" and I said the same thing back.

But I found myself unable to think about now good it felt to be touched by my boyfriend who loved me and who I loved back. All I could think about was that lack of passion, the fire in our relationship that was weaning down to a spark.

He moved down to my legs and started massaging them. "Do you want me to..." he trailed off, gesturing several times to the area between my legs.

I shook my head and smiled. "No, it's alright." Truth be told, I didn't really want anyone's mouth near my privates.

He leapt onto the bed and pulled me up on top of him. I buried my head in his shoulder and he rubbed circles on my back. He moved his hands down to my butt and felt around and started to flip me over.

"No," I gasped.

His eyebrows furrowed. "What is it?" He leaned over me in a position I now can't help but associate with the night I burned his arm with his cigarette.

"I have to pee," I breathed, wiggling out from under him. I scampered out of the room and into the hallway of his house. His parents were never home on Monday or Wednesday nights like this Wednesday.

The hall clock told me it was 5:45. I slipped into the bathroom and washed my face in the sink. The water felt good against my skin. It let me feel something.

Peter's room always kind of spooked me. It was a very dark purple color, with dark brown floors and pictures of skulls and punk bands on the walls. He always had some punk song playing on his record player, except when we had sex.

When I walked back to his room, he was looking away from me, lying on his side and staring at the wall. I thought for a second he might be asleep, but I'd only been in the bathroom two or three minutes.

"Peter?" I called.

He turned toward me and I was filled with dread. I could feel his anger, physically.

"What's wrong?" I asked, plopping back down on his queen-sized bed.

"Do you think I'm fat?" He asked it like he wanted affirmation, not like he was curious.

"No," I assured him, reaching in to touch his face. He swatted my hand away.

"That's not what you told Christina."

"Christina?" My mind started to panic. How could he have overheard our conversations? Which ones did he know about? I tell Christina absolutely everything, which is probably a mistake.

"I read your texts to her," he said, hurt in his voice. "You could have just told me."

"I'm sorry," I said, though deep inside me, I felt anger starting to boil up. Why was he reading my texts? What else had he read?

He shook his head and looked in the other direction.

"I'm worried about you, Peter," I began, propping myself up on my elbow and running my hand along the side of his arm. "You look tired. You've been eating a lot. You almost never smile. Are you depressed?"

"My parents think I am," he said quietly, still not turning to face me. There was vulnerability in his voice. I found it kind of sexy. I reached behind me to one bedside table and found his glasses, and I handed them to him.

He put them on and turned around. "Get dressed, please," he asked.

I put on my jeans and T-shirt and tugged my sneakers on. He tied them for me, an old tradition we had.

"Do you need someone to talk to?" I asked, trying to be helpful. He got up from the bed. "My brother saw this great therapist after he came out, when he was getting bullied, and she helped him a ton. With insecurities and kids at school and accepting himself."

He turned to face me. "I don't need a gay therapist," he said bluntly. "I need a girlfriend who I can talk to without the fear that she's going to talk about my insecurities to her friends behind my back."

I hung my head like a child being scolded. I wanted to blame him, and I hated myself for that, because I was the only one to blame.

He opened his arms and I walked into them, and for the last time, I got a glimpse of that 'forever' feeling I now miss so much.

* * *

><p>I lie curled up in my bed, my nose deep in the silly book I have to read for English. The words have no meaning to me.<p>

I hear the faint sound of a car door slamming. It's only 10 am on Saturday. Peter is at temple (he refuses to acknowledge his family's Judaism), Caleb at GSA, and my parents out running errands. Who else would it be?

The doorbell rings. I close my book and run downstairs to get it. It rings a few more times before I can open the door.

My heart doesn't have time to sink when I see it's just Peter.

"You're supposed to be at syna-"

"Shabbat Shalom, sweetheart," he breathes, taking me by the hair in the back of my head and grabbing my ass.

He tosses me on the couch and peels off his leather jacket.

"Something about all that Zion talk makes me so fucking horny," he pants and leans down to kiss my neck. It tickles.

"Peter," I say, giggling, "get off of me."

He leans back and stares down at me. His hands brush my face and I try not to flinch. They examine the mark he left the night before last.

"I'm so sorry, baby," he says, kissing me again. I hear no remorse in his voice, but that just makes me want him more, and I hate myself for it. I don't want to have sex with him, that's for sure. But what do I want?

I change the unspoken subject. "You couldn't just invite me over?"

"My parents are mad at me," he explains. "They told me to get out for a few hours."

"Why?"

"They found my cigarettes," he says sheepishly. Parents who temporarily kick their son out for smoking? Wonder how they'd react when they find out he slapped his girlfriend.

I roll up his sleeve to look at his burn. It's a yellowish-pink now. I wonder how long the skin damage will last. I shouldn't have pressed so hard.

"Does it hurt?" I ask.

He shrugs.

"I'm sorry," I say.

He shakes his head, looks down. "It's fine."

He sits up. I guess he's not horny anymore.

"Do you want something to eat?" I ask him as I get up from the couch.

He shakes his head and follows me into the kitchen.

"Did you finish the reading for Malone's class?" he asks, bored. He takes a seat on the stool and places his elbows on the counter.

I shake my head. "That's what I was doing when you got here."

He shrugs. "It's boring. His class is just boring."

"You love his class," I say, rounding the corner. "It's where we met."

Peter looks down at the counter. He covers his face with one hand and presses the other to his stomach. Something's troubling him. I dread finding out what it is.

I grab an apple from the fruit bowl and I'm bringing it to my mouth when his hand, the one that was covering his face, closes on my wrist. The other hangs in the air, ready to strike. "Very funny, bitch."

"What are you-"

"Very fucking funny." He looks at me, his head bowed and his pupils at the top of his eye, looking at me in that Stanley Kubrick way the serial killers always stare at the camera when they monologue. Something slips out from the depths of me. Something I felt on the night in the park. Fear. "You know I hate the sound of people eating."

I drop the apple, but he keeps his grip on my arm, hardens it. He grinds his teeth and whips me around the counter. He drags his fingertips up my forearm and seizes my hand. His other hand grabs my ass and he begins kissing me. I push at him but he only tightens his grip.

He forces his tongue into my mouth, silencing me. He's making sure I don't say anything, and he succeeds at silencing me and I hate him for it.

Sounds emerge in my silence. My survival instinct kicks in, though somewhere in the back of my head my inner voice tells me there's no need for it. It's just my boyfriend. Still, my heart pumps on the walls of my chest, like it's going to break out.

The silence rips apart and I break free from him. His grip on my wrist hardens but he moves his hand from my butt to my neck and I struggle to breathe.

I won't die like this. I tug at his hair with my left hand and go for his stomach with my right. They're weak moves, but my resistance throws him off guard and he pulls away.

I turn away, but he grabs me again. I cry out as he shoves me. I watch him recede for a split-second as I fall, and I land on the floor. Pain shoots up my side.

He pulls me up, his cold hands grasping my sweaty ones, and throws me against the wall, going back to kiss me again and kill me slowly again.

At that moment the front door swings open and Caleb enters the house. Peter grabs me by my waist. Pain runs through me every second, my new injury throbbing. Surely it will be a bruise soon. He pulls me out into central view, his lips attacking mine.

Caleb gasps and starts to laugh. "Sorry, am I interrupting something?"

I pull away, giving Peter a little shove. "Hi, Caleb!" I say a little too eagerly. My heart still pounds, telling me to run. Waves of relief wash over me with each beat, at a pace that's not parallel to the throbbing in my side.

I jog up and give him a hug. He hugs me back with one arm. I make sure not to put my chest on him. I don't want him to feel my fear. I feel safe in this boy's arms.

"How are you, Peter?" he asks, extending his hand to my boyfriend. I can practically see the hearts in his eyes from his side.

Peter fixes his glasses and takes Caleb's one hand with both of his.

He's winded and a little sweaty, but he can pass for having just made out passionately with the love of his life.

"I'm great," he says with effortless charm. "I decided to stop by after church and say hello to Tris, but, you know, young love and all."

"She's a go-getter," Caleb says, his face lit up. Peter nods and leans on the counter, looking at the both of us like some prize in two parts.

"Hey, we should all go upstairs and do some talking. I learned some new ice breakers at GSA today. How does that sound?"

"That," says Peter, hiccuping and pressing his hand to his middle, "sounds great."

"I'll go straighten my room a little," I suggest, but Caleb shakes his head and gives Peter a smile. "We can talk in the upstairs den. No cleaning required. Let's go."

I hate when my brother makes decisions for me.

* * *

><p>"Alright," says Caleb once we're all sitting somewhere around the low brown coffee table in the center of the den. "Let's talk. How was everyone's day?"<p>

Stressful, I want to say.

"Fine," says Peter begrudgingly, still looking as though he hasn't breathed.

"Mine's been great," says Caleb, smiling. Of course. "How about you, Tris?"

Caleb is such a natural. He's charming as hell, charismatic like Jesus or Martin Luther King. It didn't take him long after he knew who he was to come out and be who he was. Everyone swears he'll change the world one day. And he's so smart. He manages to be a nerd and the most popular kid in school at the same time. All the straight girls love him. Hard to believe he was once a brooding teenager like me or Peter. Hard to believe he doesn't have a boyfriend.

"Fine. Kind of boring."

"You two didn't seem very bored when I walked in," said Caleb, his winning smile pointed toward Peter.

"Where were you before you got home?" asks Peter, leaning forward and lacing his fingers together.

"GSA," says Caleb warmly. "Gay-Straight Alliance."

"Cool. Very cool." He takes a deep breath as the awkward silence settles in the air. "Do you mind if I smoke in here?"

I lift my arm to say no, but Caleb strikes it down gently. He smiles the polite smile, but he doesn't turn his head in the polite way that signifies refusal. "No. Go ahead."

I hear another car door shut. The noise brings me immediately to my feet.

"Put that out," I whisper to Peter. He rolls his eyes and rubs the little death stick on the floor, then flicks it under the couch. "That's my parents."

The three of us wave hello over the balcony. They begin carrying in groceries.

"Beatrice, go help your fath-" my mother orders, then she sees my company. "Good morning, Peter. Haven't seen you in awhile."

"Hey, Mrs. Prior. I was just paying your daughter a surprise visit."

Originally my parents didn't think very highly of my boyfriend, with his black clothes and incessantly loud punk music. They just cared that he made me happy. But now that he's softened in every way but emotionally they adore him. Great.

My father enters and shakes Peter's hand with his free one.

Once all the groceries are put away, we gather in the living room. My dad turns on the TV and begins flipping through the channels. Peter keeps his eye on me even while Caleb and my mother chat him up and I walk to the kitchen to finally eat my goddamn apple.

* * *

><p>"We haven't had sex in weeks," he says two days later. A Monday night. Smoke fills his room, in addition to some Sex Pistols song with no melody. He traces little pictures on my arm. The other side of it is still red with little lines from Saturday morning.<p>

I put a hand on his stomach, which rises and falls with each breath. He takes another drag of the cigarette. I can feel my hatred for him increase with every breath I take.

He wipes it in his ash tray and turns over, opening his arms to me. I pull myself into them. He smells like smoke and vaguely of shampoo. I miss the boy who smelled like strawberries.

"What do your parents think of me?" he asks, completely out of the blue.

"They think you're a treasure. And Caleb thinks you're hot. He thinks the whole 'nice Jewish boy' thing is adorable. He likes the punk attitude, too."

"Good." He kisses the top of my head and for a little bit, everything is perfect. For a little bit, he never slapped me that one night that I burned his arm. For a little bit, he never forced himself on me or threw me on the ground. For a little bit, it's just us, Sylvia and her Ted. The fearless girl and boy who needs that fearlessness.

I fall asleep to the sound of his breath.

* * *

><p><strong>QOTC: Which line is more legendary - "Shabbat Shalom, sweetheart" or "I don't need a gay therapist"? <strong>


	3. White Devil

**A/N: Happy Thanksgiving! I hope you all had a great time with your families celebrating the nation's genocidal history. Enjoy this chapter. 4 will be up either tomorrow or Saturday, depending on how fast I can write chapter 5. Get ready for chapter 4, too. Uriah will be there - and maybe Four, if you're lucky.**

* * *

><p>The marimba ringtone jolts me awake. I check the time on my phone as I pick up the call. 1:52. FUCK. It's a school night.<p>

"Tris?!" Caleb asks once I pick up. I stuff a finger in my ear to drown out Peter's soft snoring.

"Yeah?"

"Where are you?"

"I'm at Peter's."

His voice goes up, his interest clearly piqued. "It's two in the morning. On a school night."

"We fell asleep."

Next to me, Peter begins to stir. He mumbles a bit, a mixture of "babe"s and "time".

"Mom and Dad were worried sick."

"I'm sorry, okay? What do you want me to do?"

"Come home!"

Peter's eyelids flutter open, but I "shhh" him back to peace and he rolls over.

"Is the baby sleeping?" Caleb asks with mock endearment.

"Shut up. And yes, quite peacefully. I don't want to leave him."

I probably would want to leave him if I wasn't half-asleep. I would if his parents weren't asleep and if he wouldn't get mad at me for waking him just to drive me home.

"Are you safe?"

"Yes." He wouldn't hit me when his parents were home... right? "Yes, I'm safe."

"Do you have your stuff?"

"Yes." A lie. I have a bag with my phone and some homework in it. But Peter can just drive me home in a few hours so I can get ready for school.

"Did you guys have sex?" he asks suddenly.

"Excuse you? No. He's religious."

"Please. Like you guys haven't done it before."

"We haven't done it in almost four weeks, Caleb."

"Why not? Is it his gut? I told you he's been gaining weight. No more than 2000 calories a day. Wait, it's the glasses, isn't it?"

"Shut up, Caleb."

"Tell him I said hi. Good night."

"What about Mom and Dad?"

"They won't care. If they do, I'll make sure they won't."

"I love you." I say it quietly so as not to wake the sleeping dragon beside me, as though not to prompt his jealous rage. God knows he wouldn't believe me if I told him it was just my brother.

"Love you too, Tris. Goodnight."

"Goodnight."

* * *

><p>I wake up naturally at what my phone tells me is 6:23 am. Peter is still snoring softly, moving around in his sleep. I slip out of bed and into the hallway bathroom, tiptoeing so as not to wake his parents.<p>

He folded his smallest pair of sweats on the bathroom counter just for me. I smile and catch myself in the mirror. I look tired, even though I just slept.

I'm stretching when I see something in the mirror. A long bruise, or rather a series of bruises, on my left side, the one I landed on when Peter shoved me in my own house.

I pull my tank top down and splash water on my face, and put the pants on. I didn't even realize I was cold until I put them on.

I shut the door and creep back into his room. I shake him awake. Even though he stirs, he still refuses to get up.

"Come on," I whisper, running my fingers along his forearm, a gentle gesture. "Wake up, you have to take me home."

He sits up and stretches. He goes in for a hug, but I turn away. "After you shower."

He's such a zombie in the morning. He trudges into the bathroom, groaning. Clearly he doesn't care if his parents hear him.

I lie on his bed, watching the sun rise from his window, watching dawn spread its fingertips across the horizon, bringing color to the world.

I don't know what's so great about that shower, but he stays there a long time.

I hear footsteps ascending the stairs and go into panic mode. _Shit_. I hide under the bed and make as little noise as possible when his mother enters the room. I can't see her, but I know what she looks like. Tall and svelte, dark hair, probably in a business suit. She's a lawyer, both of his parents are lawyers. They work at the same firm.

"Peter, honey? You're up early. Make sure you get home early too. You have an appointment with Dr. Wu after school. I love you, honey."

He mumbles loudly. She sighs at the same volume and leaves the room, but I don't come out of hiding until I hear their car engine rev up and their wheels screech on the road.

Peter comes out wrapped in a towel, the water in his hair dripping on the floor. It looks really dark when wet, almost black.

We've seen each other naked several times, but it still makes me a little uncomfortable when he dresses right before me. He chooses black jeans, a black button-up shirt, a black leather jacket, and black sneakers. He's very easy to shop for.

"You have to take me home, so I can get my stuff," I remind him as I hand him his glasses. He groans while he puts them on.

"It's almost seven, we should get going."

"I'm hungry," he whines and crawls on top of his bed. "Let's just stay here for a while."

"I can't go to school in your sweats."

"You can't?" he asks.

I shake my head. "Let's just go. We can eat at my place."

"Will your brother be there?"

"Probably not. He has student government on Tuesdays."

We climb into his car and he decides to kiss me as he starts the engine. I pull away quickly and instinctively before our lips can touch. Great, what's he mad at me for now? He sighs and turns out of the driveway. We drive silently to my house, his anger filling the car as if we hotboxed it.

When we arrive at my house, I run upstairs and look frantically around for some clothes. My bedside clock tells me it was was 7:27, and I fly into a panic. I don't want to inflate Peter's anger by making us late in any way.

I pull on dark jeans and a T-shirt, then some slip-ons. I swear under my breath when I realize that I left my other shoes at Peter's house.

It's chilly outside, a precursor to the winter that will surely be here in a month, so I whip a cardigan on and descend the stairs.

I pour two bowls of cereal for myself and Peter, who sits across from me on a stool. The one where he forced himself on me the other day. I still have marks from that.

He's done before I am and puts his dish dutifully in the dishwasher. He shifts his weight from one foot to the other as he stares at the clock then back to me. I make an effort to eat faster and finish at 7:35.

"Let's go," he says impatiently, pacing while I load and turn on the dishwasher.

"I'm going as fast as I can," I tell him, gathering my things into my book bag. I realize something's missing. "Wait… where's my phone?"

"It doesn't matter, Tris," he says with strain in his voice, "we need to go. Now."

I look from my bag up to him, and his cold eyes stare me down. Fear sends a chill down my spine, the same primal fear that tells a gazelle to run from a lion. The same fear I felt in the seconds before his hand struck my face. The same fear I felt before he shoved me on the floor here, in this exact spot, just days ago.

I swallow my fear and start walking. He won't hurt me. I won't let him.

I'm a few feet past him when I feel him tugging at my hair. He grabs me and pins me to a wall and throws his hand over my mouth before I can cry out.

I expect a throat slam or a punch to the nose, but nothing happens. He doesn't hit me at all. He just stares at me. I gaze into his green eyes as they gaze into mine for what seems like an eternity. The anger in his face turns into something else; sadness, curiosity. He takes his hand from my mouth and brings his lips to mine and I go into his. He loosens his grip on my hair and smoothes it out for me. For the first time in weeks, it feels good to kiss him.

He pulls up for a second and the morning light hits his hair perfectly enough so that it looks red. I want to go back in but he pulls away further. "Who were you talking to last night?"

I stare at him, puzzled, returning the look he gives me. I realize he must be talking about my conversation with Caleb. "My brother."

He looks at me more intensely, assessing the validity of what I said. Figuring out whether or not to trust me.

I move forward again - his kiss felt so good - but he just turns away and shakes his head. He looks a little green. "Let's go," he says finally.

I tighten my grip on his cold hand. "I heard what your mom said to you this morning, about the doctor. Why are you seeing her?"

He turns his gaze to the dashboard clock, which reads 7:57. School starts at 8:05. He shrugs.

"Is she a psychiatrist?"

He nods and I drum my fingers on the back of his hand. "Why do they think you need her?"

"'Cause I'm failing three classes. And last night was the first night in six weeks I've slept entirely through without waking up. And I'm always angry. And I poison my lungs every time I'm nervous, which is all the time. Oh, yeah, and I'm fat."

I sit in the silence brought on by his words.

"I'm sorry," I say as we pull up to the school parking lot.

"What is there to be sorry for?" he asks, raising his voice.

I want to hug him, but that would be awkward. All I can do is let pass another awkward silence.

He wraps his arms around me and kisses the top of my head. "I'll see you in third."

* * *

><p>"I love you." He whispered his words into my hair, but I felt them through my whole body. Felt their merit. He loved me, I loved him.<p>

He spoke over the crashing of the waves. We sat on a Saturday night on the shores of Lake Michigan at Loyola Park. We'd been there all day, a gift from him to me.

That was the first time he ever told me that he loved me. It was our two-week anniversary.

He grabbed me and laid me down on the sand and started kissing me. I ran my hands down his back and played with his hair and the tender spots on his neck. He moved his hands from my hair down my body to my pants and started playing with me.

"Keep going," I breathed into his shoulder. And he did.

* * *

><p>That was the first time he ever fingered me. But he's doing it now, with none of the same passion or attention to me. I guess he just wanted something to warm his hands in, and he chose my pussy over the fireplace.<p>

I'm supposed to be over for dinner. He wanted to have sex, but I wasn't up for it, so we went upstairs to fool around and I guess this is what that entailed.

"How was the therapist?" I ask him once we're done, as he's kissing me all over on his bed.

He raises an eyebrow. "It was fine." He gets up and takes a few steps back, wiping my lip gloss off his mouth. "Why?"

I sit up and grab my shirt from the floor. "'Cause I'm worried about you."

"There's nothing wrong with me," he says as he crosses the room and opens up the window. He's drenched in sweat, even though he seemed cold before. "They just want her to do what all shrinks do to teenage patients - diagnose me with Post-Traumatic Asshole Disorder and give me an IV drip of Prozac."

I laugh and pull my jeans on as he removes his shirt. I feel bad for not being turned on by the sight of my boyfriend shirtless anymore. He was always so toned and somehow tan (a mystery seeing as he wore all black even in the middle of summer), but now he's just pale and sweaty and soft.

He puts on his glasses and climbs next to me in the bed, lacing his fingers in mine. His hands are clammy; he's nervous. He grabs a cigarette and lights it.

"Why don't you wear your contacts anymore?"

Peter shrugs. "We went to the eye doctor to get my mom checked out and I liked these, so I picked them out."

I want to explain to him that that didn't answer my question, that I didn't ask why he wore glasses, just ditched the contacts. But I don't want to risk making him angry. I'm afraid.

"Hey, this kid in my math class is throwing a party on Saturday, and I figured since we didn't have any plans, we could go."

A few months ago Peter would never have acted on an offer to go to a party. He was too shy. The only way he would have given in and gone was if I would have convinced him. But I don't get invited to parties.

"Who?"

"This Arab kid. Uriah."

I've never heard of him. I just shrug. "Okay. I'll ask if Christina's going-"

"Blech."

I roll my eyes. Peter and Christina have never really been friends. Her code name for him is actually White Devil. She says she doesn't trust white boys, just girls.

_Are you going to Uriahs party on Sat. _I send to Christina while Peter is downstairs getting food.

_Yaaaaaaaaaaassssss_, she replies a minute later.

_I'll see you there _

The dots that signify that she's texting are up for a few seconds. They go down for a bit and then pop back up. _Wait are you bringing White Devil?_

_He's bringing me_

_Fuuuuuuuuuuuck_

_Don't be rude_

_Why not? He's rude to me_

_He tries not to be. You're just kinda a bitch :-/_

_Shut up_

I giggle and put my phone to sleep as Peter enters with a bowl of cereal in his hand. I don't know what's up with him and cereal, but it's practically all he eats for all three meals. He has, like, five different brands in his pantry.

"So does she know him?"

Talking about Uriah and Christina. I nod and smile. "Yeah. So we're going?"

He shrugs. "Yeah, we'll go."

* * *

><p><strong>QOTC: Which is more unnecessary: Caleb's unwarranted and out-of-turn comments on his sister's boyfriend's body, or a diagnosis of Post-Traumatic Asshole Disorder?<strong>


	4. Party Spirit

**A/N: Sorry for not updating yesterday! But I hope you like this one, the customary party/truth or dare chapter. Some minor characters are introduced in this chapter. You might recognize them. Also, I'm going to be at a movie and doing homework tomorrow, but I should have time to post chapter 5, provided that I finish chapter 7 fast enough.**

* * *

><p>"Oh, my God. I wish I had your hair," Christina muses as she runs a brush through my blonde locks. She straightened it about an hour ago.<p>

"No, you don't," I say, getting up and letting her sit in the chair, which sits before a mirror in her room. She did my hair in front of it and gave me a dress to wear - a little slim pale gold number with sequins lining the sides. .

"I really do. I'd conform to white beauty standards if I did." I roll my eyes, but not while she looks. I don't feel like being lectured about how I'm literally dating the patriarchy.

She's changed too, I suppose. In middle school she was just the average whitewashed black girl. But then freshman year she joined BSU and became who she is today, the sarcastic and brutally honest activist.

"Are you going to wear makeup?" she asks. She's already got hers on, even though the party isn't for two hours.

I shrug. "I mean, Peter likes it better when I don't-"

She cuts me off by rolling her eyes and scoffing. She looks up at me. "Who cares what he likes?"

"I do."

She rolls her eyes and turns away. Christina's never had a boyfriend, though several boys have tried to get with her. She spurns them every time; she doesn't believe in giving herself over to the patriarchal male. Yet she wears tons of make-up and shops until she drops.

"When's he supposed to be here, anyway?" she wonders aloud, referring to the perpetually-late Peter, as she stands up.

"5:30."

She furrows her eyebrows. "Party doesn't start until 7."

"He wants to spend time with me before we get there."

"Ah, romance. Going to eat French fries and listen to the Clash and let him play with your tits after you're done. White people are insane."

I laugh out loud. But she's right. That is pretty much all we did on our last date, not including the little picnic in the park with the cigarette and the slap.

I slide my hand up my arm. He hasn't hit me or hurt me since last Saturday. I push it into my side, feeling the sequins, and it rubs against my bruise. I bite my lip in an attempt not to cry out.

"Is your brother going to be there?" she asks as she shelves her makeup. I shake my head, explain that he's been drowning in college applications for the last few months.

"He's got a bright future," she says to me as she washes her hands in the sink. "What's on those applications, by the way? What's he got going for him?"

"Um, lifetime 4.0. President of GSA and a few other clubs. Volunteer work for the Trevor Project and some environmental causes. I mean, whatever makes for a busy weekend and a charming smile."

"Now that is one outstanding gay brother."

We laugh in unison.

"What about Peter? What'll be on college applications?"

I shrug. "Does it really matter?"

She nods as if it's the most obvious thing in the world. "How are you two going to build a future and make names for yourselves without an education? How are you going to make nice little white progeny with a boy who has no goals for himself?"

I want to scream at her. I want to yell at her that Peter's lack of ambition is the least worrying thing about him.

I hear honking. It's him. My heart sinks, and I mentally scold myself. There's no reason to be scared of my boyfriend.

He pounds on the door. He's angry.

"See you there," I say to Christina and give her a hug. I grab my white coat and walk down the hallway of her one-story house.

I swing the door open right as he's about to knock again, leaving his hand suspended in mid-air.

"You're early," I say quietly.

He smiles a forced smile and extends his hand to me. I take it and he leads me away from Christina's front door. He's wearing his usual all black.

"I hate it here," he says once we're in his car.

"Why?"

"'Cause I hate Christina." He starts the car and wheels out of her driveway.

I don't say anything. I just sit there while he drives.

"Do you want to get something to eat?" I ask him a few minutes after we've left. I can't tell where we're going.

"I just ate."

Okay, because that's not selfish or anything. I haven't eaten since this morning.

"Where are we going?"

"My place," he says and turns to me like it's obvious. "We have almost two hours to blow off. So let's blow it."

* * *

><p>I crouch behind Peter as he digs through the opening of a crawl space in the basement of his house.<p>

"How long has this stuff been in here?"

He shrugs, not stopping his rummaging. "Since we moved in, so, like, fifteen years. Not all of it is old, though."

He hands me some old stuff; pictures, stuffed animals, relics from his childhood. Then he reaches his hand in a little further and leans in, and I can see his plaid boxers. It's kinda hot.

"Found it!" He almost bumps his head on the top of the crawl space, but he slithers back out and hands me a small bag full of green stuff.

"Is this weed?"

"Yeah," he says, pulling out another bag the same size and putting it on the floor.

I give him a blank stare as he turns back to me.

"What?"

I shake my head. I'm apprehensive. I've never done drugs before, not after the countless lectures Caleb has given me about the dangers of marijuana and alcohol and nicotine.

His tone softens. "It's just a little pot, Tris." I should trust him. He's my boyfriend. But I know the telltale signs of peer pressure.

"I'm not doing it. We're going to a party later. You can get intoxicated there."

"My parents aren't home. It'll be fine."

"You've already gotten in trouble for smoking!"

"This is different. They'll never suspect me." He puts the door back on the crawl space and turns back to me. He places a cold hand on my shoulder. "Tris, I was raised by professional liars. I know how to weasel my way out of this. Trust me, it's the safest drug out there."

"It's still a drug!"

"It's not a drug. It's a plant with slight hallucinogenic properties. It's from the ground. Like potatoes." He smiles and bites his lip. "It just makes you more peaceful, it just makes colors brighter. And it makes you hungry."

I mean, what's really the harm in a more peaceful Peter?

"Fine."

He crawls toward me and kisses me on the forehead. He gets up and helps me to my feet, and leads me up to his room.

* * *

><p>"I've been kind of a douche lately, haven't I?" Peter asks. He's lying on his bed, his hands folded over his stomach, stoned and staring at the ceiling. He taught me how to roll a blunt. I also discovered that I'm not really fond of the scent of weed.<p>

I take his hand and he turns to me. "Yeah, you have," I say, my hand in his.

He looks at me for awhile. "I'm sorry," he says.

"It's okay," I say. He just stares at me for a while, a smile playing at his lips. He brings me in and kisses me. And I kiss him. And maybe it's the weed, maybe it's him, maybe it's just me, but I don't have any desire to stop.

* * *

><p>The house seems to literally boom with each beat of the song. Cars line the street already, and the windows are open to reveal lights on in nearly every room of the mansion.<p>

The grass is wet and my eyes still a little bloodshot. It's 7:45, but Peter says we're not late since the party won't be over til tomorrow morning. He guides me in and rings the doorbell.

A kid with chin-length black hair and dark skin opens the door to greet us. He's holding a tall bottle of some kind of alcohol. His face turns quickly from a smile to a look of confusion. He puts a finger on his chin. "Um, my package wasn't supposed to be here until Monday."

Peter breaks out laughing, which almost knocks me off my feet, and the kid laughs too. They do that bro-hug handshake that boys always do for some reason. "EMO BOY'S HERE!" the kid, who I'm assuming is Uriah, shouts to the people behind him, and some of them cheer and whoop. He closes the door behind us. "Get in here, asshole," he says.

"Is this your girl?" Uriah asks, pointing to me with his bottle.

"Yes," says Peter, and pulls me in at his side, which causes my now week-old bruises to ache.

"Blonde, petite… _mignonne_," he says, impressed. Peter deadpans him, and Uriah explains that it's French for cute. Peter just shakes his head. Uriah hands him a bottle of the same stuff he was drinking and tells us to get lost.

We turn a corner, and it seems that with every person we pass, Peter's iron grip on my shoulder tightens, pressing me further and further into him, like he's trying to get us to merge together and become one. It makes it harder to breathe.

My stress is relieved when I spot Christina from the end of a hallway. I wave to her and she waves me over. I weasel out of Peter's grip and when I look back, he's rolling his eyes and turning the other direction.

"Hey, babe!" she says and gives me a tight hug, as though the hours we were away from each other were ages. I smell alcohol on her breath.

"Hi," I say, and flash her a bright smile.

"I see your date is… your boyfriend," she says, grinning as though it's some kind of joke. I know drunkenness is supposed to make you kind of slow, but nothing could make Christina too slow for a quip at Peter.

"Yeah, he's my boyfriend, I suppose." I shrug and she laughs, grabbing onto my shoulder.

Uriah interrupts the awkward silence by shuffling up behind Christina and grabbing her by the waist. He laughs and rests his chin on her shoulder. She squirms and kicks, but she's smiling. I could never do that while smiling, I realize.

"Hey," Uriah says, eyes wide, "some of us were going to go upstairs and talk and play some games. Do you and Emo Boy want to come?"

Christina wiggles around in Uriah's surprisingly strong grip. "Please don't invite him, please don't invite him," she begs.

"Oh, yeah, I'll go," I say, smiling. He takes my hand in his warm one and leads me upstairs, and I don't look back.

We enter a smoky bedroom with posters of semi-nude women on the wall (something Christina must be too drunk to complain about) and a bed with blue blankets. Arabic quotes adorn parts of the wall, which I find ironic in the backdrop of the other posters.

"This is my humble abode," says Uriah. He's less drunk than Christina, I notice. I also notice that he stares at my butt a little bit longer than I would have liked him to. "Take a seat."

Between his bed and his walk-in closet sit a diverse group of people in a circle with a bottle at the center. It points to an empty spot, where Uriah sits.

I sit between Christina and a blond guy with green eyes. Uriah is between a purple-haired girl and a huge guy with bushy eyebrows. I've seen almost every one of them around school except for one, a guy with big ears and dark hair who sits diagonal from me.

Uriah makes sure to speak over the loud electronic music.

"Everyone, this is Tris. She's dating Emo Boy from our Trig class."

Christina and a bald girl make gagging noises, which increases my respect for them just a little bit.

"Why did you invite him, anyway?" the bald girl asks, referring to Peter. She's wearing all black and a rainbow flag pin, and she's holding the purple-haired girl's hand.

"He's actually really funny. And he always has cigarettes, and I don't know how he gets them other than magic because he looks like he might be a very tall eleven-year-old," explains Uriah, hiccupping. She just rolls her eyes.

"Is he good in bed?" asks the girl with purple hair, smiling devilishly at me. The bald girl rolls her eyes.

"I mean…"

"He used to be," Christina cuts me off. "He's not really anymore. He's poetic, though. They started talking when he wrote an emo poem in English class about death."

The big guy and the blond guy laugh in unison. I don't really see how that's funny.

"It wasn't about death. It was about suicide," I say under my breath, which draws the attention of no one but the guy with big ears. He looks up and I notice his eyes are a very peculiar, very dark shade of blue.

"Anyways, let's skip Spin the Bottle, since Tris here has a boyfriend and it would break the moral codes of Lynn and Christina to kiss any male. We can just go right ahead and get to know each other really well, alright? Let's play Truth or Dare."

"Oooh," says the purple girl, leaning in. I notice the bald chick tighten her grasp on her hand.

"I'll go first," says Christina. "Then Tris. Then Will. Then Lynn. Marlene. Uriah. Al. Four. Repeat. Ask the person on your right."

"Alright," says Uriah, "you first."

"Tris," says Christina, putting a hand on my shoulder, "truth or dare?"

"Um… truth."

Dumb decision. "Tris… why doesn't yours and Emo Boy's sex rock anymore? Why is it so… dull?"

"It's dispassionate," I sigh. I match the quizzical looks on everyone's face and turn to Will. "Truth or dare?"

"Truth."

"Are you a virgin?"

He grins and the circle laughs. "Yes. I'm saving myself for marriage." The big kid, Al, snorts.

"Lynn, truth or dare?"

"Dare, punk."

"I dare you to kiss Four."

She gags and crawls over to where Four, the guy with blue eyes, is sitting. She grabs him by the back of the head and presses his lips to hers. She gags again, and the whole circle erupts with laughter.

"I told you Four was a sex god!" says Uriah, sipping his beer. "He can make _Lynn_ straight."

* * *

><p>After we've all gone around the circle three times, we stop the game and change positions. Uriah calls it the "Talk Circle".<p>

Uriah has literally just opened his mouth when the door opens and two people burst in. A guy who resembles Uriah is followed by a tall figure in all black… Peter.

They're laughing about something, and Peter is physically disheveled. His hair is messier than usual and his shirt is unbuttoned. He runs up and grabs me, pulling me onto his lap. The whole circle gives me auspicious smiles as he kisses me. I probably shouldn't have divulged the details of my sex life to them.

The other guy sits next to Uriah and grins at Peter.

"What's so funny?" asks Al, nodding his head to the other guy.

"Nothing, nothing," he says, frowning. "Just… lots of things you can do when freshmen show up at your party asking for the 'good shit'."

Will sloshes the contents of his red cup. "What did you do to them?"

"Two words: water wasted."

"'Good shit'," Peter muses and lifts his leg, shaking me, "Like, bro… this is a high school party, not a dispensary."

"God, they're so dumb. I love them."

"Don't harass freshmen," says Will, determination in his green eyes. "Don't take advantage of someone because they're younger or smaller than you. That's just evil."

_Don't take advantage of someone because they're smaller than you_. I wonder what it would be like if I had Will for a boyfriend instead of someone who does take advantage of me because I'm smaller than him.

"Chill out, man," Uriah's double says. "No need to get all moralistic."

"Zeke, it's not that unreasonable," Lynn chimes in. "There are some really cool freshmen in GSA."

"You're in GSA?" I ask, pointing to her.

"Vice President. There's actually a surprising number of gay people at our school."

"I know. My brother's the president."

"You're Caleb Prior's sister?"

"She is," says Peter, his hand on my stomach. "He's got a huge crush on me."

I laugh and look down. But then I shoot my head back up when I remember.

"Wait, don't tell him about this. Don't tell him I was here. He thinks I'm at the movies with Peter."

"Yikes!" says Zeke, cringing. "You think he'll be able to tell how baked you guys were when you got here?"

"Was it that obvious?" asks Peter. Zeke nods. "Can you still tell?"

The whole group kind of nods in unison.

We've been talking for what feels like a little bit when I notice my phone ringing. The screen lights up with a photo of my brother in a bookstore with his hand shielding his eyes like an explorer, looking into the distance for new reads.

"Hello?" I ask, plugging a finger in one ear.

"Beatrice? It's almost 11."

Fuck. I hadn't been watching the time at all. My curfew's 11:30.

Peter starts kissing me on the side of my face, and I swat him away. He tries to tickle me, too, but I spurn him again. He hiccups and pushes the side of my face.

"Beatrice? When will you be home?"

"Um, by 11:30. The movie's over, we just went out and now we're… um…"

I look across the circle, which has gone silent except for the music pounding in the background. Lynn makes a gesture for eating, a hand going up to the mouth repeatedly.

"We're getting something to eat."

"Okay. Will he drive you home?"

I look over to Peter. He took the Talk Circle as an opportunity to inebriate himself. His three cups are stacked in a pyramid before him, and he looks like he could pass out any second.

"Um… I'll get home. We'll get home. I might actually be later than expected. I love you. Bye."

I hit 'End' and look around the circle. "Anyone want to drive?"

* * *

><p>I sit in the passenger seat of Zeke's car. Peter is lying down in the back.<p>

"Thank you," I say as we pull out of the driveway.

"No problem. I can hold my liquor, unlike some people," he says, pointing to Peter with his eyes. I decide I like Zeke.

"Was he okay?"

"What do you mean?" he shifts his eyes from the road to me.

"Like, was he a big trouble? Too much of an asshole?"

"No. I mean, you're really lucky here. One of the nicest guys I've met in a while, and fun to be around. I don't know where the whole 'emo' reputation comes from, other than wearing all black, which Uriah does too sometimes. And Uriah can be very moody, trust me."

"Where are your parents?"

He halts the car. "What's his address?"

"924 West Sandoval. My mom is in Dubai right now. Business trip, and visiting family in Oman. She'll be back next week. But I'm a legal adult, and I take very good care of Uriah, though it may not look like it."

We pull into Peter's driveway around 11:07.

"Where are his parents?"

"Out for the night. I don't know when they'll be home, so I figure we have to work fast."

He shuts the car door. I walk up to the front of Peter's house and keep the door open as Zeke helps my very drunk boyfriend into his house. I guide him upstairs and Zeke keeps watch.

I help him unbutton his shirt. It won't look weird for a teenage boy to be sleeping in just his jeans, right? I honestly don't care if it is. He hasn't said anything since before we left the party. I figure he's too hammered to process words.

He's completely dead the second his head hits the pillow. I plant a kiss on his forehead and hurry out of his room, which still smells faintly of marijuana.

I tell Zeke I don't want my parents to ask any questions, so he parks at the end of my street rather than in my driveway.

"Thank you so much," I tell him once I'm out of his car. "This was really fun." He smiles and drives off, and in a second he's just gone, and I wonder if I'm a little tipsy too.

Running is kind of hard in my heels, but I arrive at my front door at 11:26.

Most of the lights are out, so I figure my parents are asleep. I remove my heels and leave them at the foot of the stairs. Caleb's room still has light coming from it, which I can see through the crack of his door. I knock softly.

He opens it. "Good evening, Tris."

"Hi. Thanks for covering for me."

He crosses his arms. "I'm tired of covering for you. A night at Peter's, and now this? Where were you? Not the movies."

I look down. "A party."

He sighs heavily. "Did you drink?"

I look into his eyes so he knows I'm telling the truth. "No. Not at all, I swear."

He purses his lips. "Did you smoke?"

I shake my head, hoping he won't catch the gleam in my eye.

"Did he drink? Did he smoke?"

"Yeah, and… yeah."

He rolls his eyes in exasperation. "I'll talk to you tomorrow, Beatrice. But this is the last time I cover for you, okay?"

"Okay, Mom."

"Go to bed."

I fall into a dreamless sleep.

* * *

><p><strong>QOTC: Uriah or Will?<strong>


	5. What Are You Going to Do?

**A/N: Sorry for the wait, guys! I actually wrote this before I published chapter 5, but I'm an evil little shit hehehehehehe. I hope you all had a good Thanksgiving and your December has been good so far. Rated T for swearing (this was originally a lot more explicit, but I took out most of the cussing so here it is). **

* * *

><p>Three of us sit in my room the following day - me, Christina, and Caleb. Christina and I are waiting to go get a mani-pedi, have a girl's (gossip) day. Peter is home with a hangover that he's texting me incessantly about.<p>

Caleb sets his magazine down on my floor. "Do you think it's hot when you call a guy 'Daddy'?"

Christina, sitting at my vanity, gags at the same time that I laugh. "No! That's just disgusting. Why would you want to have sex with a father figure?"

Caleb shrugs. "I don't know. I always thought it would be kind of hot." Christina makes a 'Yikes' face at me. Caleb sets his magazine down again. "Hey, have you ever called Peter 'Daddy'?"

I look up from my phone. "Oh, my God. No! That's gross!"

"Hey, maybe you should," Christina suggests, turning away from the mirror. "Maybe it'll make your sex life more interesting."

I throw a pillow at her head. Caleb leans in, confused. "What? Is it dull?"

"_So_ dull," Christina says, pouting.

"Hey, if it helps, pineapple juice always makes cum taste better," Caleb offers. Another look of disbelief crosses Christina's face, and I shake my head. "What? It works… trust me."

"Oh, my God!"

Caleb throws his hands up in defense of himself.

_i threw up in the shower this morning :(_, Peter's next text reads. I send him the laughing emoji and put my phone to sleep.

"What, so you've sucked dick?" Christina asks.

Caleb scoffs like it's obvious. "It's, like, a rite of passage into the LGBT community."

"What if you're a lesbian?" I ask.

He shrugs. "I mean, eating pussy works."

"Chris and I actually met a really cool lesbian last night. This girl in GSA with you, Lynn. And her girlfriend… the one with purple hair."

"Marlene?"

"Yeah, her."

_i think my parents heard lol. i have another apointment today with my physichiatrist. _He's never really been a masterful speller.

_What do you guys even talk about?_

"Who else did you guys meet?"

We look to each other and shrug. "These brothers, Zeke and Uriah," says Christina.

"Oh my God, Zeke Pedrad?" Caleb shakes his head. "Don't go near him. He's… he calls himself the Party King of the Class of 2015."

We laugh at the same time. "He's so nice, though," I offer. "He drove me and Peter home. He was totally sober."

"Oh, my God! What? And he didn't even try to touch you or anything?"

Christina and I laugh. "No."

_she thinks im builimic. and so do they now i guess lol._

_I thought she thought you had post traumatic asshole disorder. _

"His brother's really funny, too," says Christina. "They look exactly alike."

_well thats just sort of a given right? _

I don't reply for a few minutes as Christina and Caleb continue their chatter about Uriah and Zeke. I pick my phone up once their conversation comes to a lull. _Why does she think you're bulimic?_

I set it down and listen to Christina talk. "There was also this other guy there, among guy with blue eyes and big ears. Everyone calls him Four."

"Four Eaton? Total babe. I swear to God, if he's straight, I'll flip my shit."

_i eat a lot and i dont act like the dream child so there must be something wrong with me right? _I snort.

_Tell them that's just being a teenager._

"Well, I think your shit will be flipped. 'Cause he kept staring at Tris last night, even when Peter was there."

"He was not staring at me!"

"He totally was! And everyone thought it was funny how you had no idea!"

Peter hasn't said anything, so I go forth and text him. _Shrinks are stupid anyways._

_not realy. shes nice and her office smells like peaches and she really gets me._

_Do you think you need her?_

"That Will guy is really cool. Al, too."

"Al…" She looks down and laughs. "He thinks you're hot, too."

"Ugh. Gross. Two creeps ruined for me."

My phone buzzes while Caleb cackles. _i dont really see how its a bad idea for me to see her_

I look up. "Caleb, did you like seeing your gay therapist?"

"When I came out?" He shrugs. "I mean, she was okay. Kind of a hippie, though. She had me color in pictures to show my feelings in a visible way. And she gave me weird Saudi candy, it was all halal. Why?"

"Peter's seeing a psychiatrist."

Concern crosses his face as amusement crosses Christina's. "Why?" he asks.

"His parents think there's something wrong with him."

Chris snorts. "They've finally caught on." I ignore her.

"Like what?"

"They think he's bulimic."

She wrinkles her nose. "Guys can't be bulimic."

Caleb purses his lips and looks at her disapprovingly in that Mom way he looks at me. "Christina, eating disorders can affect anyone."

She rolls her eyes and turns back to the mirror. Caleb keeps pressing. I can see the worry in his eyes. Why does he care more about my boyfriend than I do? "Why do they think that?"

I shrug.

"Yeah, aren't eating disorders supposed to make you skinny?"

"He's not fat," I remind her. "And I mean, he's changed a lot recently. But I don't think he has any kind of disorder. It could just be stress."

"What's this chick going to diagnose him with? Just Stress, in the new DSM?"

I scoff and Caleb bites his lip, then returns to his magazine. He puts it down a good minute later. "What's he stressed about?"

"He's not gay, Caleb," Christina says, smirking, "if that's what you're getting at."

He ignores her. "Maybe it's you."

He didn't say it in an accusatory way, but I'm still offended. "You think _I'm_ the reason my boyfriend needs to see a shrink."

"I mean, it could be. What was he like at the party?"

"Fine. Normal. Drunk."

"What's he like when it's just the two of you?"

Moody. Angry. A douche. "Oh my God."

He nods and leans back. "Just some insight."

"I call bullshit," says Christina, offering an opinion I neither care about nor have the patience to tolerate. "He's an asshole no matter what. And he's all lovey-dovey around you. You're, like, the only person he's nice to, Tris."

"Sometimes," I say quickly. "Sometimes he's an asshole, all depressed and brooding, and then a second later it's like we're the only two people in the world."

Christina chuckles. "I'd diagnose him with an acute case of adolescence." She checks her own phone, then picks up her purse. "Come on, Tris. We have a manicurist to go see."

Peter texts me while we walk down the stairs. _anyways, i gotta go now. i love you baby_

He hasn't called me 'baby' in weeks. I smile and shove my phone in my bag.

"I hate flip-flops," I tell Christina as I buckle my seatbelt.

She puts her sunglasses on as she pulls out of my driveway. "It's worth it. Socks and shoes would cost us an extra 45 minutes drying that we could spend shopping."

"I hate shopping," I remind her.

"No, you hate shopping when you have to pay for it." I match the smirk she gives me.

* * *

><p>We arrive back at my house three hours later, with spoils from the mall. This includes the lacquer on my fingernails and toenails, a cinnamon color that reminds me of Peter's hair (Christina's are rosy pink) and several bags of clothes from boutiques and stores in the area. I spent nearly all of my money. All I have left is a Hamilton in my back pocket.<p>

"Good afternoon, Beatrice," my mother greets me. She smiles warmly at Christina. "Lovely to have you over, as well."

"Lovely to be here, Mrs. Prior." I just love Christina's forced transition from angry blacktivist to polite, conforming upper-middle-class child. She manages to be both at the same time. It's something I really like about her. The duality of womankind, she calls it.

"Did you girls do some shopping?" my father asks, rounding the corner. He wipes his hands with a dish towel. It smells like garlic and marinara sauce.

Christina rests her hand on the staircase. "Yeah, actually. We hit up the mall and got our nails painted."

"Ooh," my mother says with interest and examines our nails.

"Come on, Chris, let's go upstairs." I gesture to her and we start to walk before my father stops us.

"Beatrice, be polite. We have a guest in the house. Christina, would you like to stay for dinner?"

"Oh, sure. I'll just ask my mom."

I don't know why they still ask her. She eats at our house at least once a week, but they insist on being polite and asking her each time.

"Your parents are so polite," she remarks once we're in my room. Caleb is sitting in front of the mirror, reading a book.

"I know."

She shuts the door, and drops the act immediately. "They're so white. 'Oh, Natalie, what do you think of the new health care policy enacted by President Obama?' 'Andrew, you know it's not polite to talk about health care at the dinner table!'"

Caleb and I burst out laughing. I turn to face her. "You should see Peter's parents. They're the least polite people I've ever met. Have you ever had dinner with two lawyers?"

She shakes her head.

"I can't imitate them like you probably can. But it involves a lot of swearing and a lot of downcast glances from the both of us. And they don't even apologize, just smile and ask if I liked the meal."

Christina sits on my bed "Hey, you should go over there tomorrow for dinner. If they're so honest all the time, you could get the tea on why White Devil needs to see a head shrinker."

Caleb spins around and puts his book down. "Christina, has anyone ever told you that you talk more like a homosexual than I do?"

She scoffs and sprawls out on the bed, leaving me on the floor. We've done a rotation of the positions we were originally in. "Everything white gays have, they've taken from black women."

I ignore whatever discussion ensues and turn to my phone. It was on silent during our mall trip, and now several texts from Peter line the lock screen.

-_ just got out. she was honestly shocked to find that i have a girlfriend_

-_ i told her i threw up in the shower but i forgot to mention i was at a party last night until the end of the session and she thinks im not only bulimic but really slow. fml_

-_ my parents are making me eat so they can watch me. i mean it when i say, fuck my life_

I giggle and save the texts. _Lol I was at the mall w Christina. Can I come over for dinner tomorrow?_

_they might think its kind of suspicious like youre helping me 'purge' or smth (thats what its called when bulimic ppl throw up after they eat alot) but yea ill ask :*_

_:*_

"When will dinner be ready?" Christina asks.

"Probably around 6. As usual."

"Well, it's 4:30. We've got some time to kill."

"We could do homework."

"Ew. That kind of thing is for people like him," she says, jerking her head towards Caleb.

He sticks his tongue out at her. "If you weren't like a second sister to me, I'd slap you."

"We're more like siblings-in-law. Maybe we will be, once platonic marriage becomes socially acceptable."

_they said yeah. so basically we can do what we do every monday without you having to sneak in. :)_

* * *

><p>"Girls! Caleb! Dinner's ready!"<p>

The three of us pad downstairs, me in the lead, and walk into the dining room. My mother plants a kiss on the top of my head as if she hasn't seen me in days, the way she always does.

"Would any of you like to say grace?" my father asks once we've all sat down, an extra chair pulled up for Christina next to me. None of us say anything, so my dad decides to say the prayer himself. "Amen," he says at the end.

Towards the end of the meal, I ask my usual Sunday night question. "Can I go over to Peter's house for dinner tomorrow evening?"

"Sure, love," says my mother, "but make sure to be home before ten."

"Alright." I smile and wipe my face with the hand towel.

After dinner, Christina departs with a hug and tells me she'll see me tomorrow at school. When I get back to my room, my phone sits on my bed, screen lit up.

_do u love me? _5 minutes ago, from guess who.

Suddenly the excitement and adoration I had for him earlier just vanishes, like it always does. _Of course I love you. _

_youre the only one then_

_That's not true. Your parents love you. _

His reply's a little later than I would have liked. _are u sure lol_

_Yes. What did they do?_

_they r dicks lol_

_All parents are dicks._

He doesn't say anything.

* * *

><p>"Good evening, Tris," Peter's father says at the door. He smiles and makes way for me to enter.<p>

Peter is standing in the kitchen, saying something to his mother, when he sees me. He crosses the foyer and wraps me in his arms. I bury my head in his chest and he kisses the top of my head. In the periphery, his father stares at us, puzzled, then walks on into the kitchen. Peter takes my hand and leads me upstairs.

"Where were you at school today?" I ask him. I sat in third period, alone, and when we were asked to partner up, I had to work with this pasty blond loner named Robert who smelled like cheddar and had spit all over his lip.

He shrugs, sitting down on his bed. "I skipped. Didn't feel like going to school."

"Do your parents know?"

He grins sheepishly. "No."

"Are you failing English?"

"I have a C-minus."

"What's your GPA?"

"Um, well, just because you asked, Counselor Prior, it's a 2.00."

"That's not good!"

He sighs and lifts a nail to his mouth, biting it. That apathy, that playfulness pisses me off. The feeling of him slapping me runs through me again. "Honestly, I don't really care. I don't think I have the strength to, like, care about school." He looks so young, but I don't care. I'm mad. It's not fair that he's sabotaging his future. I'm such a mom. I get that from Caleb.

"Did you tell your psychiatrist about that?"

He stands up, the playfulness gone from his face, replaced by something else. Anger? Resentment? "You're not my mother, Tris."

"That doesn't mean I can't care about you. I love you, Peter. I don't want your chances at a good life in the future to be sabotaged because you're just too apathetic and too much of an angry teen to go to fucking school!" I clench my fists. I shouldn't be this angry, but there's no stopping now. It rises in me like a tsunami.

"'Too apathetic'? 'Angry teen'? I fucking _tried_ to get out of bed. I couldn't."

"What are you talking about? What, were you too lazy? Everything is given to you! Every opportunity! And you don't take it, you don't take any of them! And that makes you an asshole! You're sabotaging yourself, because you're just such an asshole to everyone that you have to be an asshole to yourself!"

I've never seen anything like the look in his eyes. Never seen such pure, unadulterated rage. His fists are clenched, one hand pressed up against the other. His knuckles are white.

I don't recognize my voice. "What are you gonna do, Peter? HIT ME?"

But he doesn't hit me. He does something even more terrifying, something that shakes me to the core, sends fear all the way down my spine, startles and horrifies the rawest part of me.

He sits back down on his bed and he sobs into his hands.

* * *

><p><strong>Oooooooh, tense.<strong>

**QOTC: Who's dumber, Tris or Peter?**


	6. When Doves Cry

**A/N: Sorry for not having updated in so long! I've actually had this one written since I published chapter 4, but I'm lazy and also evil. I kind of feel like this story is straying from its point? Like I want to progress the plot further, but I'm still figuring out how to do that, so please forgive me if it seems a little slow. And I also apologize if it seems like I get too caught up in the action/assault scenes. Please, enjoy this, and READ THE QUESTION AT THE END OF THE CHAPTER! IT'S IMPORTANT!**

* * *

><p>He does an awful lot of crying.<p>

"I love you," I whisper into his shoulder. We're holding hands, fingers laced together, spooning. Except he's the little spoon. "I love you so much, and I'm sorry I yelled at you."

He makes some noise of affirmation or forgiveness or compromise, I don't know. He turns around and I ease off of him. He slides out of bed and walks over to his CD player. His pants fall down a little bit like they did when he was searching for weed in the crawl space. He presses a button and turns a knob, and some punk album fills the room.

He crawls back into bed and sweeps me up into his arms. He plays with my hair and maybe cries a little more, I don't know, the music is too loud.

It shifts to a slower song. "Are you alright?" I ask. "How've you been feeling?"

"I slept all day today," he says with no emotion whatsoever.

"Are you excited to eat?"

"Not hungry." He says it in the same tone as before.

I don't really know how else to make conversation. Like most teenage boys, food and sleep are the only things he cares about. And music. But we already have that.

"Kids! Dinner!" his mother yells a few eternities later. He sniffles and sits up and turns the music off, and we both walk downstairs. His shaggy hair is messy from the bed, his dark jeans a little too low on his waist. He's really hot, I realize as I'm following him down the stairs. I'm lucky to have him.

"Good evening," his mother says, smiling at the both of us.

"Hi," he says, rubbing the back of his hand on his nose, which is red like his eyes.

"Good evening, Tris," says his dad, even though I'm pretty sure he said the same thing to me an hour ago.

"Hello, Mr. Hayes."

"You can take your shoes off if you'd like, Tris," says his mom. He nods for me to do so, so I remove them and place them at the foot of the stairs.

The meal is mostly quiet, at least I think so. It's a really typical course, just mashed potatoes and chicken and string beans like we have at home sometimes. I notice Peter eats very little, just drinks his water and picks at his food. His parents talk about their cases today, which bores the both of us.

Towards the end of the meal, his dad speaks a little louder than he's been talking. "You're not eating."

Peter smiles. "Yeah, you're right, I'm not."

"Why not?"

"I had a very large lunch, _Daddy_."

"Did you?" his dad asks, not really a question at all, just matching his son's passive-aggressive tone.

He leans in. "_Yeah_. I did. And you know what I did afterwards?"

"What?" his mother asks, smiling so wide it looks like she might break her face. My eyes race back and forth at the same speed as my heart.

"I shoved my finger in my throat and I lost all of it to that toilet bowl. It was so purifying. And I felt so fucking good after."

"_Peter_," I interject. He glances at me and then goes back to staring daggers at his parents.

His father purses his lips. "I don't think that's really something to feel good about, Peter. Could you maybe tell me why you did that after lunch?"

"No, I don't think I could, actually."

"Maybe you should think about that, love," says his mother. She extends her hand to him, but their table is too long and he pulls away too quickly.

"Think about what?"

"About why you feel the need to… purge."

He lets out an exasperated sigh. "I don't need to fucking contemplate it, you goddamn _assholes_." He flips his plate, and a little ice water splashes onto me. He pulls his chair out and storms upstairs. His mother shivers when he passes her, like he's an actual storm.

I just sit there with his parents in stunned silence. His father breaks it a few minutes later. "I'm sorry, Beatrice," he says ruefully and a bit mortified. "Peter is… he's a bit… troubled, as I'm sure you're aware."

"He's…" I stare down at my empty plate.

"He's what, honey?" his mother asks and I think she's twitching.

"He's not bulimic." I shake my head. "He's not."

They lock eyes across the table.

"I… I have to go talk to him, I'm sorry."

I race up the stairs and knock on his door. "Peter!"

He opens it, grinding his teeth. "_What_."

I slip in and shut the door. "What the hell was that?"

"That's a loving relationship between two parents and their child."

I don't have anything to say to that. He walks over to his stereo and turns it all the way up.

I talk over it. "Peter, you've got to understand… they're worried about you. They're so worried about you, that you're going to hurt yourself. They're honestly convinced that you really are suffering from an eating disorder."

"I don't even care. They're not worried about me. They just want to control me."

I take his hand and sit on his bed. "That's not true. They love you. I can tell." I hold his hand and he just stares into the distance, likely unable or too tired to cry. "And I love you, too."

* * *

><p>Two weeks ago, I sat in my bedroom from 9 pm to 3 am and listened to Peter cry.<p>

I could hear his heaving breaths through the phone. It was like he would never run out of tears or things to cry about. Not the first time I had heard him cry, but the first time I had heard him sob like the world was collapsing around him.

A conversation about his parents' racism turned into sobbing because racism still existed. Then it shifted to homophobia, sexism, and other forms of bigotry. He continued, crying because he was stressed about a math assignment and then because he'd put on a little weight, and then he felt ugly and that no one loved him, and the world was such a bad place full of so much pain and misery, and good people die young, and Joe Strummer didn't deserve to die, and Johnny Rotten shouldn't be alive, he's such a dickhole. Six goddamn hours of it. We hung up because he fell asleep; I had wanted to, but I was scared he'd cry more if I just hung up on him. Not that I didn't comfort him through the whole spell. I was totally there for him. But I lost a lot of sleep that night, and maybe a little respect for him.

* * *

><p>I'm in third period again and nearly falling asleep. I got four hours of sleep last night.<p>

"Alright, class," says Mr. Malone, jolting me back to alertness. "Pair up, and choose a different partner than the one you were with yesterday."

The class begins to move, creating chaos. I move across the room to the now empty desk in front of Peter and perch myself in it. He's asleep.

I clap, and the noise wakes him up. "Hi." He yawns. "What's going on?"

"Partners for some assignment."

Malone's now slinking across the room between rows, taking names and assessing partnerships.

"How much did you sleep last night?"

"Two hours." He smiles.

"Fighting with your parents?"

"Kind of. I mean, being fake bulimic is really tiring, you know? Especially the fake vomiting part."

"Ew. How did you-"

"Ah, the two lovebirds!" Malone is suddenly standing in front of us. He's an eccentric professor type, with a tweed jacket and square glasses that kind of remind me of Peter's.

"Ms. Prior and Mr. Hayes, is it? Alright, I'll take note of it. Try not to canoodle when you should be working, though."

I smile and turn back to him.

"How did I what?"

"Make them think you were throwing up?"

He shrugs and crosses his arms over his chest, leaning back. "I just turned my music up and let the sink on and sat on my bed."

"They know you're not. I told them."

"They don't believe you. They think you're covering for me, or in denial. As they should."

"How long are you gonna keep it up? What are you gonna do, keep lying to your therapist?"

"Well... yeah," he says, casting his glance down, then back up.

"Ahem!" Malone calls, drawing the class's collective attention. "Would you all take out those papers which I passed out to you yesterday?" For some reason he tended to always talk like header titles in eighteenth-century philosophy books.

"You are to do a ten-page report on a literary movement of your choice, with background, ideologies, and famous writers of the movement. Due the 21st, so you have two weeks, which should be more than enough."

The bell chooses to ring right then. He speaks over the sounds of his students packing up our things. "Well, I'll see you tomorrow Until then, I'd advise you to get working."

He puts a hand on my shoulder and guides me out of the room and into the hallway, where Christina stands, her books in her hands and her bag slung over her shoulder. "Hi," she waves.

He kisses me on the cheek and turns the other direction while Chris leads me to our next class, Chemistry.

"You two seem to be getting along fine," she says as we exit the Academics Hall. "I take it last night went well?"

I shrug. I crashed right when I got home a little after 10, so I didn't have time to text her. "In some ways. Not so much in others. Not for his parents."

"Really? What happened?"

I hate going to his house, I realize as I am trying to come up with words to describe the situation. I hate the air of tension that falls over us as soon as I walk in and dissipates the second I walk out. The way he talks to his parents and the way they talk to him interferes with the mood of the whole place, and I hate that. He's on edge there, he's angry, and I don't feel safe.

"It's just... tense. He's eternally angry at them. I mean, it makes him happy to make them miserable."

We enter the science building across the quad. "What a douche," she remarks.

"Not really," I respond, "they're just as bad. They don't really care about him. Just the way they talk to him makes it seem like he's a nuisance that they just want to put on a leash and lock away so that they don't have to care about him. I think that's why they're making him see a therapist. To give him something to do, to..." I can't find words. "cage him."

"He needs to be caged," she tells me while we walk up the stairs.

I ignore her. "I think deep down they really do care about him. They just haven't shown it in so long it's like they've forgotten."

"That's deep," she says once we're up the stairs. We make our way across the hall to Mr. Yancey's room.

We sit at adjacent tables, but not close enough to really talk, so usually she texts me in class. Our teacher doesn't really care, thankfully.

Christina and I both embark on long walks to get here, so typically we're the last ones to arrive. Yancey is standing in front of the white board that contains our instructions, pointing to it. We're to read 15 pages in our textbook and write a summary. Lovely.

My phone buzzes when I'm on page 6. It's from Peter. _ditching spanish hyfr _

One from Christina arrives a few seconds later. _Eat lunch with me and Uriah please :)_

I look up to her. She's pretending to write and glancing at me, asking for confirmation.

I shrug. _IDK Peter might want me to eat w/ him._

_Your new boyf Four will be there though._

_I'd rather eat with my old boyf. You know, my actual boyf._

When I look up, she's rolling her eyes. A text comes a few seconds later. _You can bring White Devil too if you want IG._

_Ok. I'll look into it :)_

I text Peter a minute later. _Want to eat lunch with some people from the party? :)_

_uhhhhhhh _

_Please._

_whats in it for me._

_What do you mean? It's just lunch Peter._

_i hate them. you gotta convince me._

_What do I have to do?_

_blow me. tomorrow. my house._

_Deal._

I don't know why I agreed to do that. That's peer pressure, right? I've never blown a guy before, and I've never really wanted to. But at least it'll be with a guy I sort-of trust and am growing back to liking.

I'm growing back to liking him. He hasn't hit me in what I know is a long time, but I still feel like he'll snap any second, and there's no way to avoid it. He's hit me before and he'll hit me again, it's inevitable.

* * *

><p>An hour later, the Talk Circle reassembles in the cafeteria, more like two Talk Rows. Peter holds my hand under the table, and we sit across from Lynn and Marlene, the former of whom is engaging in the current conversation, about upcoming horror films.<p>

"Mama was shit," says Will matter-of-factly. "The acting, the story, the special effects… shit. You are not a horror buff if you genuinely enjoyed Mama."

"I'm not a horror buff," says Christina casually. "I'm a Lucas's actor buff."

"He was hot," says Marlene, pointing to her and nodding.

"I loved Annabelle," says Al, the one who is reportedly a creep and who likes me. "And The Conjuring. My favorite is still Insidious."

"Hey, what about the Human Centipede?" says Uriah.

A collective gag washes over the table. "That's disgusting!" says Christina.

"Sexy, though, right?" says Zeke, giggling.

Peter speaks next. "I don't know about you guys, but my favorite horror movie will always be Orphan."

"That one was really good," says Will in that tone again, like it's an objective fact. "The little girl was great. All three of the child actors were great. The cute little deaf girl, too."

"That movie's not even scary," says Four, his voice low.

"I didn't say it was scary," says Peter, his eyes narrowed, "I said it was good. A movie doesn't have to be scary to be good."

Al interrupts before they can argue anymore. "Orphan's not really a horror, is it? It's more like a psychological thriller."

"I like thriller better than horror anyways," says Peter. "And then there's a subtype of horror movies that barely have a story, that are just gore. Like Final Destination. Or they're just gross. Like The Human Centipede."

"I am going to throw up if you guys don't stop talking about that," says Christina, avoiding looking up.

"Okay, okay," says Uriah defensively, "no more Human Centipede discussion. Let's talk about President Obama's administration, or his new health care policy."

Christina shoots me a look and immediately we bust out laughing.

We spend the rest of the lunch period laughing and eating, and luckily, my obligation doesn't even have time to cross my mind.

* * *

><p>"It'll be fine," he said, a little smile on his lips. He put his big hand over my small one, and I peered out of the passenger seat window of his car. Nine weeks ago, before we did it.<p>

It was nighttime, and we were right outside his house. His parents weren't there. I looked out of the window. It was September 9th.

I saw myself in the mirror, but I'm not sure I recognized myself. It was like the person I was looking at was an impersonator, a pretender, an other. She was foreign.

"I've never done it before…" I trailed off, and then I hesitated before I spoke again, which was probably a mistake. "With a guy."

"Are you gay?" he asked, his smile fading.

I looked straight at him and shook my head. "No."

He smiled and looked down.

I moved my hand from under his and put it on his shoulder. "Look, I really want to be with you. I love you so much. But I'm just… I'm scared."

"I love you, Tris. You know that I would never do anything to hurt you. I swear to that." Liar.

"I trust you, Peter. Maybe I don't trust myself. I'm just… what if you do hurt me, and it's too much and I'm too scared to say something? What if it's not everything I dreamed it would be?"

"Tris, it's just sex." He slipped his hand over mine again. "It's not some magical experience that changes who you are. You don't lose anything when you lose your virginity. You don't become a different person, you don't change. The only thing that changes is what's between us. It's just an expression of love, Tris. It's not meaningless and it's amazing, but it's not scary and it shouldn't be something where you distrust me. I love you, and I want to show you. And not just in some poem for extra credit in Malone's class.

I took his hands in mine and kissed him, and he kissed me back, and finally I understood what he meant. And I was ready.

* * *

><p>"I'm not ready," I tell him.<p>

His face doesn't go soft the way it used to when we talked about sex or love. He just rolls his eyes. "Yes, you are. You just don't know, because you're letting your fear overcome you. Intimacy is not a big deal. We're animals, it's how we procreate, it's how we feel pleasure." He takes his shirt off and throws it on the bed.

I just look from him to the floor, my heart pounding. He's a hungry lion and I am a gazelle in his path, the way it always is. I'm his prey.

He gets up from his bed and takes me by the wrists. "Come on, Tris. Why are you scared to do this, but not actual sex? You could get pregnant from that, or an STD. There's nothing dangerous about this. I ate lunch with your friends, this is how you repay me."

"You enjoyed that."

His eyes narrow, singling me down. He walks toward me, the lion crouching in the grass. "You're still under obligation. You can't break that."

"Here I am, breaking it."

The lion pounces. He grabs me by my arm and tugs me forward. His fingers close in over my elbow, and I know I'm not strong enough to escape. Still, I try. The gazelle clings to life.

He brings his other hand around to the back of my neck and reels me in. He kisses me, and I ease up in his arm. I go into the kiss. It's the only chance I have that he'll spare me.

His hand slides down my back and under my jeans. I keep kissing him. If I distract him, he can just fuck me, and I'll be able to go home without the taste of jizz in my mouth.

He pushes me onto the bed and I land. I stare up at him from an awkward position and we exchange grins. Only mine is mischievous and his is… predatory. He bites his lip, glances up and down at my figure on the bed. Fuck, no. No. I'm his prize; I'm his prey.

He has me in a submissive position. I crossed him. He fooled me. He won't forgive me. I have to do what I promised to do.

He grabs me by the hands and shoves me, hard, against the wall. I bend my knees before I hit it, and they take the first injury. I land on all fours, my kneecaps and palms throbbing. I stand up, swallowing the pain, and back into the corner.

He turns around and stares at me, breathing heavily. He radiates anger. He swallows and moves quickly at me. I raise my hand to him, and he stops in his tracks, laughing. His laughter allows me to breathe for a little bit. But the second I lower my hand, he crouches on his knees and throws at me.

I use my forearm to block him, but he shoots it down and pulls the two of us closer to one another.

"No! Stop!" I cry out, but he throws a hand over my mouth and continues on in his rampage. He punches me in the throat and I struggle to breathe. He removes the other hand from my mouth and goes for my stomach. One, two, three punches.

"Stop! Stop! Peter!" My voice is strained, but his name escapes my mouth clearly.

He takes a minute to register the last word. His name brings him out of his rage. His hand is frozen, suspended over my midsection, and the only sounds are the muffled music, his heavy breathing, and my wheezing. The anger in his eyes turns to confusion, and his jaw drops.

I grab his hand. It hurts to move, but I take it in both of mine. He's just stuck there. The only thing on him moving are his eyes. They flit around. He's taking in his surroundings; remembering where he is. Is it possible he really had no idea what he was doing?

"Peter," I whisper, since talking is hard when you can't breathe.

The cold rage thaws, and he puts his hand on my back, supporting me. He helps me up. I stifle the groans I so badly want to let out.

Walking is hard on banged-up knees and with a bruised stomach, but I manage. He walks me over to his bed and puts his shirt on at record speed.

He hasn't looked in my eyes yet. And he doesn't, just looks at the ground. And suddenly, he just exits the room and shuts the door and I'm all alone in there.

I don't know where tears come from. They hurt, but they feel so good. Like being with him. I just sit there, sobbing, for what feels like hours. I would rather die than re-live those moments. I can't believe it happened to me. I can't believe he just snapped.

The door opens, and he enters the room. It takes me a few seconds to recognize that it's him. He looks like he just cried, too. More tears come from my eyes, roll down my cheeks. I wipe them away with my hands.

He sits next to me on the bed, his weight making me sink a little. With caution and care, he puts his hand on my far shoulder. He doesn't pull me in, just holds me in one hand. He uses the other to wipe more of my tears. I despise this.

"I'm sorry, Tris," he says, his voice shaking. He sniffles, but he holds back his tears. I just sit there, letting myself cry, sitting next to the person who made me cry.

It's a strange sort of feeling.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Okay, so isn't Peter, like, a massive douchedick? Like, God damn, he's lucky I'm not his girlfriend, because Lord knows I would literally drag him to Hell by his fucking hair if he treated me that way. Critical question: Tris is fierce. Why doesn't she drag him to hell? What's stopping her?**

**Okay, so here's the question of the chapter. It's REALLY IMPORTANT for me that I get feedback on this. Okay, so: I have an idea for a new Divergent fanfiction. Actually, I have the first chapter written already, but I want to know if you guys would be interested in reading it before I publish it. It centers around Tobias, about five years after the end of _Allegiant_ (three after the epilogue). He's married to Christina (yeah, yeah, I know, sorry) and they're expecting a child. He works for the Chicago PD (Chicago, Milwaukee, and Detroit are all in a confederation of former Bureau experimentation sites, so their police forces work closely together) and basically his life is pretty normal except for two factors: A) he's come to the realization that he doesn't love his wife and does not want to have children with her, and B) there's a serial killer on the lose in Milwaukee whose killings reflect his religious fanaticism. Think Helena from Orphan Black, sort of, but less premeditated and more schizophrenic. And Tobias quickly becomes the leading officer in solving the case, but it turns out he is connected to it by more than just an interest, confirmed when he sees a photo of Tris Prior at a crime scene. Would you guys be interested in reading it? **

**Anyways, please get back to me on this! Happy Holidays, guys. I hope you enjoyed this chapter! :***


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